


Filling a Void

by princessofmind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:10:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The familiar warmth and whirr of the fans and smell of overworked electronics is almost knee-buckling, and he's sitting in the main room, bare feet curled in the old carpet and his red pajama pants a stain against the colorless fabric.  He's putting something together, quite frankly you don't care, and it smells like the grilled cheese sandwiches he makes when you've had a bad day, and he doesn't look at you and you can feel your heart breaking in the silence, always the silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filling a Void

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Homestuck kink meme to fill the [following request](http://homesmut.livejournal.com/12138.html?thread=23924842#t23924842):
> 
> _Anonymous sex. Essentially it's what it says on the tin. Multiple partners are preferred, but I don't mind if the partners are actual strangers or if the anonymity is part of the fantasy and he actually knows who's involved. I'd love to see Eridan being thoroughly dominated and treated as if he's just there for the pleasure of others, and totally getting off on that._
> 
> My mind kind of got away from me and it turned in to something not quite what the OP was asking, but I'm a slave to my muses and I do what they tell me. It's short, and not very graphic (rated it M just to be safe), but I hope everyone enjoys!

It usually happens at the end of the month, when your paychecks are running out and you eat half stale spaghetti noodles with just a dollop of sauce for the whole pot, just a ghost of a flavor that you're not even sure is there or not, and it leaves you full but unsatisfied. You're usually out of your medicine by the end of the month, but you don't need your medicine like he needs his, so you cut the last of your pills in to halves, sometimes fourths, and try to wriggle to the next pay check.

Because what else can you do? He could easily be making enough money to support the two of you, but he never went to school, doesn't have the degree all the companies ask for no matter how qualified he is, and freelance work will only get you so far. He has dreams and aspirations, staying up late until the sound of his computer fans puts you to sleep, and you never quite know what he's working on, although you can always tell when it goes sour because the constant whirring and heat disappears and he sits on the couch for days, not eating until you grit your teeth and fork over the money for his favorite blackberry cobbler from down the street, and his purple-stained smile makes the emptiness in your wallet seem like less of a tragedy.

But then he blows another fuse that the landlord howls and makes you replace, or one of his circuit boards fry, or the electricity bill comes in and yours is always astronomical with the two desktops and laptop that are always running, humming. Sometimes you don't get paid, because you work at a second hand book store that struggles to make even, and the old British lady that owns it let you sleep on her couch until you met Sollux after your parents kicked you out, so when she asks you if you could possibly wait another week before getting paid, what else can you do but kiss her wrinkled hands and smile and tell her it's okay?

It's never been about the money, but as the pills trickle out to nothing but dust on the inside of an orange bottle, your limbs are heavy, you make him eat more at dinner, and every breath you take is one that you don't deserve. You didn't even graduate from high school, and for all your family's wealth and influence and power you can't even reliably feed the only person in the world who cares if you come home at the end of the day. And despite how you need him, desperately and soul-deep, you know that he doesn't need you.

And more than anything, you want someone to need you. To mean something to someone, even if it's fake and temporary, so you find yourself sitting on the bed of the run down motel, naked save for your threadbare plaid boxers and socks and the tiny tarnished silver band that rests on your middle finger, something he found at an antique store and pressed in to your palm one rainy evening while you tried to hold yourself together.

It's never just one, because you learned the hard way that one is never enough, they're too gentle, and sometimes they try to cherish you, like you're something special, and it's like soaking your bones in acid, and it made you call Feferi for the first time in four years, and your brittle heart snapped under the weight of her automated voice mail.

Tonight, there's two businessmen, dressed to the nines and talking amicably when they come in to your room. They undress, and one of them smiles as he slips behind you, fingers trailing over your too prominent ribs and the scar on your stomach from when your mother threw a broken wine glass at you when you were just a kid. Your glasses are stored safely with the rest of your belongings, and the man who kneels above you could be anyone.

The one behind you is warm and soft, not as toned as the body above you, and you can already feel his erection nestled comfortably against your ass. He's watching the one above you, as you run your hands up the backs of his thighs and he cards rough fingers in to your hair at the action, snaring the roots and tugging in a way that makes your eyes water and your cock jump.

Someone who used to mean something to you told you that you had a pretty little cocksucker mouth, and it would probably be the only thing you'd ever be good for. The man above you is panting as his hips snap forward, forcing himself deeper and deeper, and your eyes water and there's drool running down your neck and there's absolutely nothing sexy about this, but he's moaning in this deep baritone voice telling you how good you are.

The one behind you pushes you in to his friend's pelvis with every forward thrust, and it hurts, bright lights dancing behind your eyes, but they're both moaning and swearing and enjoying your body and it sends pleasure coiling through your limbs until you're desperate and straining and crying out around the dick in your mouth when a hand finally wraps around you and you feel dirty, defiled, _wanted_ , and you come all over the tacky floral bedspread with a wail.

You stand in the shower afterwards, the yellowing tile warm under the spray so hot it could boil your skin straight off the bone. The ache in your muscles is pleasant and your mind is honeyed numb, sweet with your thoughts drifting just out of your reach. You're floating in a dark ocean, bobbing with the swell and eb of the tide, and there's no weight on your shoulders; no rent or utilities to pay, no book store fighting so hard to keep it's doors open, no one else in the world but you, and it's blissful and you wish you could bottle the feeling up to sip on whenever you need it.

Sometimes he's not home when you get back, and you can shower with his body wash and put on deodorant and crawl in to bed and bask in the void that's taken residence in your mind. It's not unusual for you to be out late, working or trying to find odd jobs, but when you come home looking scrubbed raw and smelling like cheap soap and stale cigarettes and faint musk, there's nothing else it could be and he's not stupid.

The familiar warmth and whirr of the fans and smell of overworked electronics is almost knee-buckling, and he's sitting in the main room, bare feet curled in the old carpet and his red pajama pants a stain against the colorless fabric. He's putting something together, quite frankly you don't care, and it smells like the grilled cheese sandwiches he makes when you've had a bad day, and he doesn't look at you and you can feel your heart breaking in the silence, always the silence.

You don't realize how bad you're shaking until his steady hands are gripping your forearms, and your neck is so tense you could string a bow with the tendons. He's pulling you to him, and you're too wrecked to fight those chapped pale hands and the brilliant boy they're attached to, but you don't deserve this, deserve him, because you love when you can get away with it, but it's never worth it when you don't.

He wants to know why he's never enough, why you have to try and fill the black hole inside of you with so many nameless strangers, and you don't know what to tell him, because it doesn't even make sense to you. So you stand against the front door, his tearstained cheek resting against your shoulder as apologies run like rivers from your mouth, but you don't make any promises: you'll only hurt him again, because while you always promise yourself this is the last time you'll do this, it never is.


End file.
